


Traditions

by ruffaled



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, M/M, Original Character(s), POV James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Romance, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 14:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffaled/pseuds/ruffaled
Summary: Every year on the death anniversary of Tony's parents, Tony and Rhodey start the day by visiting their graves. Afterwards, Tony retreats into the solace of his workshop while Rhodey loiters outside, waiting, hoping, for his husband to come out. This time, Rhodey breaks from tradition and ropes in outside help to cheer Tony up.





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> “Tradition is a guide and not a jailer.”  
> ― W. Somerset Maugham
> 
> This is written for [Neebbles](http://neebbles.tumblr.com) , who had asked for Ironhusbands for a holiday gift exchange. I hope you enjoy this — I am so sorry it has taken me this long to get it done. But I hope you'd enjoy it.

Rhodey counted to ten as soon as he woke, embracing the room’s peaceful silence; an old habit he had developed in Afghan barracks to anchor himself as his mind untangled itself from sleep’s clutch, stiff muscles stirred with lethargy.

 _One_. He cracked open his eyes.

 _Two_. The room felt cold. Light filtered in through foggy windows.

 _Three_. It had snowed all night. White flakes gathered on the window sills outside.

 _Four_. The sky outside was overcast. Thick clouds blocked the sun with their impenetrable grey canopy.

 _Five._ A body had latched onto Rhodey overnight; an arm wrapped around his chest, a leg thrown over his hips, soft, warm breaths pooled behind his ear.

 _Six._ Gentle snores filled up the room with sound.

 _Seven._ Rhodey’s right hand was numb under the constant weight pressed down on his bicep.

 _Eight._ Tony.

 _Nine_. Rhodey’s bladder felt heavy, uncomfortable, his body jolted at the slightest movements. He needed to pee.

 _Ten_. He untangled himself from the mass of limbs and sat up.

Tiptoeing out of bed, Rhodey searched for his shirt from the clothes pile on the floor by the bed.

Tony remained buried under the duvet, unmoving, a messy head of jet black hair dotted with visible spots of silver. Rhodey debated waking him up.

The morning was still young. Rhodey looked out the window—some eighty floors below, he could make out tiny outlines of three city workers on the dewy sidewalk, shovelling snow off frozen concrete and asphalt.

Life in a penthouse atop Stark Towers was a world of its own, where every room boasted an unobstructed view of Manhattan. A dozen household staff took care of everything daily: cooking, cleaning, folding laundry, replacing musty, stained bedsheets with fresh pressed ones smelling of lavender.

Rhodey struggled to adjust to the unapologetic luxury. Before he had moved in with Tony, he lived in a townhouse in Forest Hills he bought with military paychecks. Every morning, he had made a habit of writing down a list of chores and stuck the piece of paper on the fridge door.

On most days, his stomach roiled at the idea of a live-in butler at the penthouse, who always kept warm coffee and a plate of McVitie’s digestive biscuits for Rhodey, right next to the day’s newspapers.

“Good morning, Master James. The usual, I presume?” The butler said when Rhodey walked into the kitchen.

Every morning, the butler listed several restaurant-quality dishes on the day’s menu, to be personally prepared by the tower’s head chef. Every day, Rhodey instead chose the same store-bought cereals he used to eat in Queens.

“Cereals, Jarvis. Please. For both of us,” Rhodey said.

He reached for the coffee and the papers.

The butler’s name was Edwin Jarvis, an old trusted friend to the Starks for two generations. He had loose white hair on an oval face, with steely, brown eyes marking decades of experience. His shirts were crisp, dress pants ironed with verticle creases. They added to the sharp, sophisticated look.

Jarvis used to fill in whenever Howard took off to the Arctic to search for ghosts from a distant past, Tony had said early on in their relationship. It had been Jarvis who took Tony for his first vaccine shot; he had filled up the forms to enrol Tony at Phillips Academy, then drove him up years later to Boston on move-in day at MIT; Jarvis had attended Tony’s graduation with a scribbled apology from Howard tucked inside his jacket.

For the first two years in college, Rhodey had mistaken Jarvis for Howard and Tony never bothered to correct him. The news did.

“You really shouldn’t be up this early, especially in this weather,” Rhodey said, settling in his chair. “We can hold the fort without you for at least a few hours.”

Jarvis smiled as he poured cereal into identical bowls. “I would expect no less from War Machine and Iron Man. But, alas, I have a duty to this household.”

Rhodey snorted and opened the newspaper.

“Is Master Tony awake?”

“Not yet.”  
  
“Perhaps you would both prefer to dine in private this morning,” Jarvis said. “I daresay he will have plenty on his mind, given today’s date.”

Rhodey checked his watch. He cursed under his breath for forgetting Howard and Maria Stark’s death anniversary.

Jarvis’ lips drew thin at the string of whispered insults out of his mouth. It was a reminder of what the English butler thought about some of his mannerisms, shaped by his upbringing in South Philly.

He flashed an apologetic smile. “You’re right, Jarvis. I’ll take the tray.”

––––––––––

The semester was over and the whole college had gone out to celebrate the end of exams.

Rhodey had stumbled into a bathroom he couldn’t recognise. He crawled on hands and knees to the toilet bowl just in time before half-digested meat chunks, and other indistinguishable traces of dinner, hurled out of his heaving, choking mouth.

The act left him breathless, his eyes watery, sweat dripped down his back, soaking up on his grey t-shirt.

His stomach churned. The putrid stench of vomit, bile and alcohol hung heavy in the air.

Outside, music blared against paper-thin walls. Rhodey sank to his knees, eyes shut, and grunted at the painful contractions in his gut.

“Platypus?”

The door opened, revealing Tony holding a glass of water. He pinched his nose with his free hand and stepped inside, his brown eyes wide with concern over the sorry state of his best friend.

“I brought some water,” he said, closing the door. Tony’s face scrunched up when he glimpsed at the contents floating inside the toilet. “We should go to the hospital.”

Rhodey shook his head, reaching for the glass. The water calmed some of the burning sensations at the back of his throat. “Shit burger. Never going there again,” he said, his voice gruff.

Tony shifted closer, reaching behind Rhodey and flushed the toilet. He smiled, looking sheepish. “Sorry. I couldn’t stop looking and it was disgusting. Come on, sugar plum, please let’s just get out of here. You need to rest.”

Rhodey got up on unsteady feet and Tony slid an arm around his waist, steadying him. Outside, they navigated through a sweaty mass of bodies, drunk classmates gyrating to fast beats from the stereo. Near the exit, a firm hand grabbed Rhodey’s free arm and tugged at it, halting their movement.

Someone leaned into Rhodey and said, “Jim, baby, come dance with me.”

It was a student from their cohort—the man was tall and had the build of a wrestler and the poise of a martial artist. He was also sober.

Before Rhodey could react, Tony wedged himself between them, scowling at the newcomer. “He’s unwell, dipshit. We’re leaving.”

The man gave Tony a once-over and sneered. His insistent grip on Rhodey’s arm tightened. “Get out of the way, Stark. Jim’s fine. Besides, I don’t recall seeing _your_ name on the guest list tonight.”

“Give it a rest. You've been trying since junior year. Jim's not interested in ugly neanderthals.”

The man bared his teeth. “You snivelling rat,” he said, letting go of Rhodey. Before he could hurl himself at Tony, a few students nearby stepped in, holding him back. One of them urged Tony and Rhodey to leave.

“Come on, honeybear, let's get you home and into _our_ bed,” Tony said, raising his voice. He flashed the restrained man a victorious smirk and guided Rhodey out of the apartment and into a frigid winter night in Boston.

“You're an ass,” Rhodey mumbled, sinking on the sidewalk while Tony tried to hail a cab. “One of these days that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you beat up.”

Tony grinned, watching the other man tug his jacket closer and blow warm air between clasped fingers. “Been there, done that, JimJam. I'm invincible.”

“Dick.”

“Jerk.”

They reached the apartment, three blocks from campus, close to midnight. Stumbling out of the lift, they found Edwin Jarvis standing in the hallway, slackjawed and eyes, damp.

“Jarvis, my man,” Tony said, steadying Rhodey against the wall, fishing for the keys to the flat. “You should've called ahead. How long were you waiting?”

“That is not important, Anthony,” Jarvis said, an unmistakable quiver in his usually steady, soothing voice. “We must speak in private at once.” Up close, his face looked puffy, swollen, and the red in his eyes told Rhodey the butler had been crying. Tony cast a worried glance at Jarvis before unlocking the door.

Rhodey didn't remember the rest of the night. He woke up the next morning in fresh pyjamas and there was a glass of water, two aspirin tablets, and a handwritten note on the bedside table. He squinted at Tony's familiar scribble:

_Platypus. Sorry, I had to leave last night. Mom and dad got into a car crash. Fatal. They needed me to identify the bodies. Gotta arrange funerals. Obi’s going to help. Left you aspirins. Go see a doctor if you still feel like crap in the morning. Could be a bug. Call me when you're awake._

_Love,  
_ _Tones_

“Shit,” Rhodey said, sitting up.

––––––––––

Jarvis prepared a tray and insisted on carrying it up to the bedroom but Rhodey blocked his way. The butler didn’t put up much of a fight, no more than the usual, soft-spoken protest, which he knew would not sway Rhodey.  

“Take a rest day, Jarvis. Don't wait up for us.”

Rhodey balanced the tray in one hand, the morning's paper in another, and headed up the stairs. On most weekends, when the fate of the world wasn't at stake, he and Tony spent the mornings in bed, solving the Sunday crossword puzzles. Rhodey had grown to look forward to it.

“You up for the crossword?” Rhodey said from the doorway, watching Tony pound the pillows and dust off loose hair and dead skin cells from the mattress. Making the bed was part of their morning ritual, which they performed with diligence before the housekeepers took charge of the penthouse, around midday.

“Not today,” Tony said, shuffling towards the window, instead. Hundreds of feet below, the city woke from its slumber. Shopfront shutters rolled up along sidewalks, where the first batch of pedestrians strode with purpose on slippery, wet concrete. Shovelled snow and ice piled along the curb as trucks arrived in droves, carrying fresh produce and deliveries for the shops. There was beauty in the simplicity of everyday life unfolding on the ground—even Rhodey admired the view, sometimes.

“Eat up, Tones,” Rhodey said, setting the tray on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “I have to make a phone call. I’ll be in the study.” Tony acknowledged a soft “hmmm” without turning.

By the time he returned, Rhodey heard the water running behind the closed bathroom door. The food had been left untouched, but the coffee, drained. A pair of grey slacks and a black jacket were laid out on the bed.

Experience taught Rhodey not to push Tony—not on this day.

If it had been any other time of the year, he would have nagged until Tony had put a bit of food in his system, then Rhodey would’ve followed him into the shower. Instead, he waited, watching the misty morning spread over the city.

––––––––––

Rhodey had woken up nursing a hangover the year Tony’s parents died. After discovering the scribbled note, he had taken the first available bus to New York and arrived at the Stark Manor minutes before midnight.

The news crew had already gathered outside the wrought iron gates in freezing cold. Camera flashes went off as soon as they noticed Rhodey making the long walk towards the entrance, where Jarvis stood waiting for him.

Inside the house, it was packed with people—friends, family, co-workers crowded the long hallways, huddled in groups, whispered in hushed voices. Next to them, Rhodey stood out like the last leaf on a bare branch in his crimson school jacket and faded blue jeans. Ignoring the squinted looks, and disapproving frowns, Rhodey followed Jarvis up the stairs. Tony needed him.

Jarvis led him down the hallway and paused outside Tony’s room. The door was closed. “He’s resting,” the butler said. “He fell ill this morning and the fever isn’t breaking. He hasn’t been able to keep his food down.”

“Shouldn’t he be in a hospital? Or at least see a doctor?”

Before Jarvis answered, another voice butted in from behind him.

“He’s in shock. All he needs is a good night’s sleep. There’s no need to raise the alarm, unnecessarily. Now, who are you?”

Rhodey dug in his heels and straightened at the sight of Obadiah Stane as he strolled towards them in his crisp brown suit and polished black shoes, a textbook example of a corporate shark. Tony had warned Rhodey about Obadiah—he had Howard Stark’s ears and rose to become second-in-command at Stark Industries by 35. Up close, he looked older than he did in photographs; his receding hairline was matched only by the rate at which his beard was turning white.  

Obadiah’s gaze was sharp and the way he eyed the set alarm bells ringing in Rhodey’s head.

“My name is James Rhodes, sir,” Rhodey said, his voice even. “Tony and I go to sch—”

“Ah,” Obadiah said, with a sneer. “The best friend. Tony has said plenty about you. You’re an aerospace engineer, aren’t you? Designing weapons—I can see why you’d be friends with our boy.”

Rhodey simmered in silent rage at the intimation, hands curling into fists at the inviting glint flashing across Obadiah’s face, almost daring him to lose his temper. He knew he couldn’t; Tony needed him.

Taking in a deep breath, Rhodey pressed forward his best smile and said, “Actually, _sir_ , I design fighter jets and I’m really good at it. Stark Industries got in the game too late, the Air Force already had my signature when they offered me a full-ride.”

Obadiah’s lips curled up. “You should be careful where you run your mouth like that, son. Might land you in sticky situations.”

Rhodey’s patience wore thin.

“Here’s a sticky situation for you,” he said, stepping forward. Obadiah mimicked him until they stood face to face. “There’s an army of reporters waiting outside the gates. The way I see it, there are two headlines they can choose to print tomorrow.  First, the loss of an American hero in Mr Stark. Or, the abuse of Stark Industries’ sole heir at the hands of its temporary CEO. Which one do you think will sell more papers?”

Obadiah blanched. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said, shouting.

Rhodey dug in his heels with determination, drawing strength from the days when he used to face off boys older, stronger and greater in numbers out of stubbornness—it usually ended with him beaten within an inch of his life and left bleeding in the playground.

“Tony needs a doctor, maybe a hospital.”

“There’s a circus out there. The last thing he needs—”

Rhodey cut him off. “The last thing _you_ want is for the public to see Tony in this state. Fine, I get it, you have your investors to answer to, but you _will_ get him medical attention, Mr Stane. Otherwise, you’re not going to want to read the papers tomorrow or face your board. It’s your choice.”

Obadiah snarled, like a feral animal ready to leap into an attack. “You’ll regret this one day,” he whispered before turning to Jarvis. “Get Tony a doctor and get this boy out of my sight.”

––––––––––

Tony had remained inconsolable during the funeral; he spent the service curled in Rhodey’s arms, clutching at his tie and crying into the suit Jarvis had lent him. Their presence at the front row drew many looks, most of all Obadiah’s cold, rage-filled glares boring into Rhodey’s back.

At the cemetery, Tony kept an iron grip on Rhodey’s arm.

With time, Rhodey watched Tony’s grief fade—at least from the surface. On the tenth anniversary of his parents’ death, Tony gave an interview from a trashed Vegas hotel room, drunk out of his mind while Rhodey fought off a surprise attack at the military base at Bagram Airfield.

On the twentieth anniversary, Tony had holed himself up in the workshop, assembling the Mark 23 as Rhodey sat on the other side of the door, waiting.

Rhodey knew Tony still mourned his mother. He kept some of her things hidden behind shelves around the penthouse, inside his lab, and in places where no one would think to look twice. More than once, Rhodey had caught him engrossed in her diaries, or sitting cross-legged in front of the television, watching old black-and-white videos of Maria Stark playing the piano for the enamoured little boy who sat at her side.

“Rhodey?”

Tony’s voice was soft, almost indiscernible from the steady hum of the room’s heater, but it pulled Rhodey out of his thoughts. Tony stood by the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You wanna shower?”

Rhodey shook his head. “I’ll do it later.”

He threw on fresh clothes and followed a dressed Tony out of the penthouse. The private lift brought them down to the tower’s basement where Happy waited in front of a black, unassuming sedan.

“Paps are already at the front, boss,” Happy said. “We’ll take the longer route and lose them around 58th and Columbus.”

The cemetery stood in the city’s outskirt, hidden behind a row of warehouses. The path split three ways from the entrance: the walkway on the left led to a cluster of unkempt graves buried under snow and bone-dried flowers, cracked, weatherbeaten tombstones covered in overgrown ivy.

Graves on the right looked newer. Fresh daisies and roses added spots of colour to the despair hanging heavy over marble headstones, bearing memories and unfinished goodbyes. The bones resting in the soil remained unmoving, crumbling in silence at the hands of time.

Rhodey followed Tony uphill on the third path, which took them to elevated grounds lined with mausoleums. The Stark family vault stood facing East. It was bigger than most and had a classical design: smooth, granite walls, Corinthian columns supporting a triangular pediment, bas-relief door leading to the crypts inside.

One day it would be his, and Tony’s, final resting place.

Unlike the ground below, the landscaping surrounding the mausoleum looked immaculate.

“Here, let me do it,” Rhodey said, his breath puffing in the bleak, chilly weather. He took the flowers from Tony and unwrapped them, placing the cluster of roses inside an empty vase by the door.  

Next to him, Tony sat cross-legged on the icy ground, lost in his thoughts. Rhodey let him be—it had taken years to convince Tony into letting him come along for the annual visits to Tony’s dead parents.

Rhodey fished for candles he packed inside his overcoat and lit them next to the flowers.

Five years ago, they had turned the visits into a ritual: They sat outside the mausoleum without ever speaking a word until the last of the candles had burned out.

––––––––––

Rhodey had met Howard and Maria Stark for the first time in his third year when they had shown up outside the apartment he shared with Tony at the crack of dawn, unannounced.

He had answered the door in his boxers, wearing an old t-shirt with too many in them. Tony’s parents stood outside in their hand-sewn designer outfits, which cost more than a year’s rent for the apartment.

Mortification clawed on his skin as he rubbed sleep-ridden eyes, flinching under the cold humiliation spreading across his face, down his spine, and polling in his gut. He stepped sideways to let them inside the flat.

To his surprise, Maria had pulled him into a tender hug and Howard stood beaming in the living area, waiting with an arm extended.

“James,” Howard said with a firm grip of Rhodey’s hand. His voice sounded warm and business-like. “Howard Stark. Tony’s told us all about you. Top of your class, Air Force scholar, you have a promising future ahead, son.” Howard’s voice dropped a few notches as he leaned closer. “And _thank_ you for keeping an eye on him.”

Rhodey had caught a brief flash of regret behind Howard’s stoic expression. Maria’s candour reminded him of his own mother: She had made herself at home in their two-bedroom student housing, roping Rhodey in to help with breakfast while Howard yelled into his phone outside the kitchen. Tony slept on, unaware of the events set into motion outside his bedroom.

“You’re smiling, James,” Maria said, prodding Rhodey’s side as he fried the scrambled eggs. “What are you thinking about?”  

“It’s nothing,” Rhodey said, feeling the colours rising in his cheeks. Between answering the door and being pulled in to help Maria in the kitchen, Rhodey had tried and failed to slip out of the old, faded shirt and into something proper. Tony’s parents said nothing about the state of his personal upkeep.

“It’s nice. Having you both here. It… it reminds me of home.”

“And where’s home?”

“South Philly.”

Maria looked up from setting the plates and beamed.  “Pat’s Steaks. Tony’s grandfather used to take my sister and me there every summer,” she said, without missing a beat.

“Best cheesesteaks in town,” Rhodey said, grinning. An instant connection formed between them, reminiscing about thin slices of steak covered in dollops of melted cheese.

A year later, Maria and Howard were gone.

––––––––––

Once the candles burned out, they walked back to where Happy waited with the car, ready to make a quick getaway from the paparazzi lurking outside the perimeter.

Halfway down the path, Rhodey paused and reached for Tony’s arm.

“Wait up, Tones,” he said. “Look, I’ve been thinking and… let’s not go back to the tower.”

Tony’s brows shot up, his expression blank.

Rhodey stuffed his ungloved hands inside his jeans, numb fingers sighing into the warm. From beyond Tony’s shoulders, he noticed Happy watching them from outside the gates, like a hawk studying its prey.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

Tony looked away, his gaze fixed on the neat rows of tombstones poking out from a bed of white—most of them had fallen into disrepair, struggling to endure the harsh, unforgiving onslaught o the weather.

“I have to finish some work in the lab,” Tony said. His voice sounded stiff and without waiting for an answer, he picked up the pace towards the exit.

Rhodey hurried after him, falling by his side in a few quick steps.

“Do it later,” Rhodey said, snaking an arm around Tony’s shoulders. “Come on, Tones, we do this _every_ year. We come here, we spend time with your parents and then you disappear into your lab for the rest of the day.”

Tony kept mum.

They neared the gate.

“Let’s do something different this year,” Rhodey said, pausing on his track.

Tony walked a few more steps before halting, shoulders sagging under Rhodey’s insistence.

“Trust me on this. I am not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable doing. But this… you’ll like it, I promise. And if you don’t, we’ll get out of there and head back. You have my word.”

Tony rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a resigned sigh.  “Fine.”

Happy did little to hide his disapproval when Rhodey told him about the change of plans, railing about the paparazzi and their thirst for Tony’s, and also Rhodey’s, blood.

“We’ll be fine. We’re taking the subway,” Rhodey said, without explanation.

The subway turned out to be exactly how they had both remembered it: The stations smelled of frozen garbage and pee while the cars were warm and stuffy, packed up to the doors with commuters. After shuffling their way through a mass of bodies, Rhodey and Tony stood in the middle of a car, drawing confused stares—some of them did double takes, not believing their eyes, wondering if Tony Stark really was taking the New York subway on a cold Sunday morning.

A girl, barely ten, got up from her seat and squeezed her way through the crowd, wedging herself between Tony and a burly teenager distracted by his phone. She tugged at Tony’s sleeve. “Are you Iron Man?” she asked when he looked down, her voice drowned by the train’s roar as it sped through the tunnel.

Tony forced a smile, eyes flitting between the girl and Rhodey. “Sometimes.”

Rhodey squeezed Tony’s hand to reassure him, entwining their fingers as the girl flashed an enthusiastic grin and returned to her seat. She stared at Tony through the rest of the journey, her gaze knowing as if they had just shared in on a secret.

After half an hour travelling in silence, they emerged from the underground station and straight into a gust of wind blowing inland from the Hudson River. Fresh snow fell on the sidewalk and collected on top of fire hydrants, piled on railings and weighed down on bare branches, coalescing on overgrown green bushes.

“Hang on, this place looks… familiar,” Tony said.

He glanced around the area: A residential neighbourhood sandwiched between the Hudson and Central Park, the wide roads lined with shops, restaurants and supermarkets, the narrow, perpendicular streets flanked by tall buildings and parked cars on either side.

When they cut a corner around a fast food joint, Tony said,  “We’re going to Little Dreams Home?”

It was an orphanage, housed inside a six-storey brownstone building dwarfed by the adjacent apartments. Children played on the stairs, others spilt onto the sidewalk, mesmerised by a game of hopscotch while a woman watched from the front stoop. She noticed them first and rushed down to the sidewalk, wearing a smile as bright as the sun, which remained shackled behind the clouds.

“James, Tony,” she said, beaming. “Good to see you again.”

Tony relaxed into her embrace like he knew it was a warm, familiar place where he belonged. “I missed you, Mariko,” he said.

Rhodey waited for his turn. When Mariko flung her arms around his neck, he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Thank you for arranging this so quickly.”  

“So, this is the surprise?” Tony said, eyes wavering between them as they pulled away.  

“I figured this would be a better place to spend your time instead of the lab. You love the kids and they love you. I just—I want you to stop being alone on this day,” Rhodey said, gesturing at the building and the children engrossed in their games.

“That’s—” Tony’s voice faltered. He swallowed. “ _Thank_ you.”

––––––––––

Mariko had walked into their lives four months after Tony's return from Afghanistan, three since the nightmares had begun, and two after Tony had outed himself as Iron Man.

The call had come as Rhodey prepared to leave the Pentagon premises, after fielding questions from irate five-star generals, all of them wanting to know every last detail about the Iron Man suit.

"This is James Rhodes. Who's calling?"

There was a pause. Then—

"I am Mariko Mori from New York. I have your friend Tony Stark with me."

Rhodey's mind had drawn blank and he almost walked into traffic, pulled back to the sidewalk at the last minute by a jogger.

"Did you—who are you? Where is Tony?"

"He's safe. He wants you to come and get him."

Rhodey had taken the first flight back to New York and went up to the neighbourhood sandwiched between the Hudson and Broadway, in the middle of a downpour, which showed no signs of stopping.

His clothes were drenched, his eyes felt heavy from a lack of sleep and his gait, wobbly, as he tried to stay upright. Five steps later, he went crashing face first on the concrete, grunting at the impact.

“Are you okay?” Someone said, hovering over him.

Rolling onto his back, Rhodey outlined the silhouette of a woman carrying an umbrella. Lightning flashed across the dark sky, followed by unhappy rumbles of thunder. He squinted, trying to get a better look at her face obscured by the dim street lights.

She extended a hand. For a woman who barely reached five foot, and probably weighed less than ten stones, she pulled Rhodey up to his feet with surprising ease.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

Rhodey nodded. "I'm fine. Crazy weather, huh?"

The woman moved closer until their chests almost touched. SHe held the umbrella over them and Rhodey finally made out her face. It was identical to the one he had seen in the Homeland database after calling in old favours on his way back from the capital.

"You're Mariko. I'm Jim. Where's Tony?"

She made an indistinct sound and nodded at the building on her right.

"Come," she said, walking towards the front door before Rhodey could say another word.

Inside the warm lobby, Rhodey noticed the state of disrepair: The paint on the wall had faded; the lifts were out of order; the tiny reception was unmanned, covered in a layer of dust. The stairs looked dirty, the landing littered with trash and the air smelled old and musty.

“Follow me, please, and mind your step,” Mariko had said.

Rhodey went up the stairs after her to the fourth storey and stepped into a narrow hallway. She unlocked the door to her apartment, beckoned him inside.

He walked in and a dozen curious faces, mostly children, stared back as they took in the appearance of a second stranger within a day.

"They’re not mine but I look after them because they have nowhere else to go. The system is corrupt," Mariko said. Rhodey felt the anger simmering under her gentle voice. “Come, James, I will take you to your friend."

Rhodey had found Tony asleep in one of the rooms, wearing clothes Mariko had said belonged to her ex-boyfriend. "He was drunk when I found him."

––––––––––

“This is becoming a disaster,” Tony said.

He dusted off the flour from his t-shirt, chest heaving. His hair looked dishevelled. Rhodey stood next to him and licked chocolate off his fingers.

Tony had chased the kids out of the room once the first batch of cookies was in the oven—the younger ones had been a nuisance, running around the kitchen playing catch and stealing chocolate chips from the counter. Rhodey egged them on, earning Tony’s scowls. The teens appeared engrossed with their Starkphones and paid little attention to anything else as they were shuffled out.  

“You know, I can understand seven-year-olds trying to nibble on the chocolate and lick the icing. But, Platypus, you are just embarrassing,” Tony said. He stood with his hands on his hips, exasperated by the chaos around him.

Rhodey flipped him off and dipped his fingers into the bowl of melted chocolate again, smirking.  

Tony sighed.

The kitchen was a mess, looking as if a hurricane had passed through: There was flour everywhere — on the counter, on the floor, even inside the narrow space between cabinet doors. Dirty bowls and utensils stacked up on the centre island. Next to the plates, a handful of Iron Man action figures lay covered in powdered sugar. Piping bags bursting with coloured icings lined up next to the cookie cutters.

Earlier, Jordan, a hyperactive ten-year-old, had a spilling incident when he sent a bottle of milk crashing to the floor, leaving Tony to mop up the mess while Rhodey had consoled the crying kid.

“Come on, Jordie, big boys don’t cry over spilt milk,” Rhodey said.

Tony had snorted.

Between the two of them, Rhodey had a knack for calming distressed kids while Tony preferred spoiling them with gifts and gadgets. Years before their lives had irrevocably changed one scorching morning in Afghanistan, they had talked about adopting. They had spent a summer looking after Rhodey’s niece, Lila, while his sister went soul-searching across Southeast Asia.

The constant dangers of their new lifestyle had put their plans on hold—Rhodey still hoped one day, after they hang up their suits, their little family of two would grow to become three. Maybe four. Or even more.

Bringing Tony to Little Dreams Home had been a good idea, Rhodey thought, watching him in front of the oven with his nose pressed to the glass, grinning from ear to ear.  

Rhodey hadn’t seen Tony beam like that in years.

The orphanage had grown since the first time Rhodey met Mariko: Six months after she had walked into their lives, Tony bought the building’s lease in her name and she had broken down in tears on the sidewalk. Tony had hired the best designers in the country to renovate Little Dreams Home. The place thrived on regular cheques from the Maria Stark Foundation as more kids arrived, searching for a place to belong.

Tony visited the orphanage once a month to spend the day with the kids. On his first trip, he had looked uncertain, doubtful about the plan.

“What if they hate me? You know I’m not good with kids,” He said, pacing the penthouse, his brows furrowed together and cheeks twitching.

Rhodey gripped his wrists. “They won’t hate you,” he said, pulling Tony’s chin up until their eyes met, where he saw the doubt, the hesitation. “You gave them a home, Tones, a place to call their own.”

“But—”

“Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

And he was. By the end of the day, after many rounds of hide-and-seek in the renovated building, Tony knew every kid by name. From then on, everything surfaced naturally: Picnics in Bryant Park, trips to the Natural History Museum, the Bronx Zoo, longer excursions to the Smithsonian, camping trips upstate where the kids sat around the fire roasting smores, listening to Tony’s ghost stories.

It had taken them weeks to realize Tony’s nightmares had stopped.

Tony moved away from the oven and set down the spatula on the counter. Walking closer, he cupped Rhodey’s face between his hands and pulled him into a long kiss, leaning into his solid frame. Rhodey’s hands slid around his waist, a firm grip on Tony’s frame.

“Honeybear,” Tony said when they broke apart. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Tones, it’s—”

Tony pressed a finger over Rhodey’s lips and shook his head.

“Let me finish. I’ve given this a fair amount of thought and I realize now how unfair I’ve been to you all these years.”

He reached for Rhodey’s hands and squeezed them, planting kisses on the back of his palms.

“When I go back to the lab, I watch dad’s old tapes. He had a bunch, he used to document everything. Compulsively. I… I love the videos he made on vacation with mom because I had never seen her so happy in my life.”

Rhodey’s voice dropped. “It’s how you cope.”

Tony rested his head on Rhodey’s shoulders and exhaled.

“It wasn’t healthy but I couldn’t do better. I am sorry for pushing you away for so long, making you wait outside the lab all these years. You. Pepper. Happy. You’ve all been trying to help and I didn’t want that. I… I have a lot of apologies to make, starting with you.”

Rhodey pressed gentle kisses to Tony’s forehead, smiling. “Baby steps. Let’s just enjoy the moment for now,” he said, inhaling deeply. “The cookies smell delicious.”

“They’re your mama’s recipe.”

The oven timer went off with a loud ding before Rhodey could reply. Tony pulled back, rubbing the back of his neck, blushing. It would be a matter of seconds before the kids descended upon the kitchen again.

“Here, let me,” Rhodey said, taking the oven mitts from Tony’s hands.

The first tiny head poked in from the other side of the door just as Rhodey took the first batch of cookies out, asking if they were _finally_ done. Tony nodded, grinning.

“All right, let’s do this.”

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> The fic was beta-ed by the ever generous, and ever-patient, [@goose-danvers](http://goose-danvers.tumblr.com/). Thank you for catching all of my atrocious grammar errors. All remaining mistakes are mine.


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